Floating along...

Back in the land of the busy consumers, trying to readjust. I am looking out at another cool and rainy "summer" day in Rhode Island. (Photo of cold spring runoff still running off over the dam in Maine last week.) When our plane landed three weeks ago it seemed like only the portion of me that had fully arrived was the part that had her passport stamped. Slowly, slowly, the rest of me is starting to show up. But all seems a bit tilted. Walking the familiar sands of Second Beach which I have known and loved for over 40 years even seems a bit off. The color green dominates the landscape but it is not the same luscious green my eyes are used to watching explode in the tropical heat. The sky is blue and the clouds are white but neither are as brilliantly so. The color of the sand is brown-ish, definitely not the white shelly sand of Conchal or even the browner shades of Tamarindo. These sands have been formed by a different breed of elements tumbled smooth and tiny by the Atlantic, which is of a colder hue itself and feels less friendly to my bare feet. The shells I scan as I walk along are jingle shells, scallops and moon snails, not the puca shells, olives or screw augers I have perused on my beach walks in the previous months of this year. (Photo of moon jelly in much warmer waters.)

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I got in my Japanese-made mini van and gave thanks to the God of Craigs List that we were unable to sell it last year before we left, try as we did. Backing out of my brother's paved driveway for the first time onto a smooth road I said to the kids, "It feels like we are floating!" I count my blessings every time I get in it and scan the back-up camera, glancing at the kids in my rear view mirror with their alien head sets, silently tuning in to a movie. I adjust the lumbar support in my leather seat and think I could happily live in its heated and air conditioned comfort forever. This one vehicle offers more comfort and features than our whole house in Costa Rica. Arigato Toyota.

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Pressing "agree", I searched through the radio options and re-programmed my favorites on my car computer where they conveniently reside under the GPS map. Recalling how a radio search in Costa Rica often led to not even one station stop, I bid a fond farewell to Radio Doce and all those blasts from my past - it's National Public Radio from here on out for my brain stimulation as I float along oblivious to even the price of gas. As happy as I am to hear the familiar voices of Tom Ashcroft and Terry Gross providing intellectual fodder, I did have to pause and wonder at the all-to familiar commercial heard hourly - what exactly is the Herman Miller Aeron chair they are still incessantly advertising anyway? So I looked it up.

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Apparently it is the best office chair. Ever. It comes in your choice of nine fancy names for black and 13 fabric styles. You can swivel in luxurious ergonomic comfort on its sturdy graphite base, having just spent hundreds more dollars on your office chair than the average Nicaraguan makes in one year. Fabulous. I am getting one. Maybe two. It is difficult, after all, to decide between carbon or hematite. The website claims the name is synonymous with social responsibility so perhaps I can use the free shipping option to send the extra one to some poor Nico struggling to sit under his zinc roof at the Managua dump, Casa Dolce Casa, in the poorest nation in the western hemisphere. I can even order it in Espanol. Who knew there was a website called Sit4Less where the fabulously low "right" price is only $649?

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I might get the foot rest with built-in massage balls while I am at it. All that lower back support will eliminate my need for stomach muscles, which are hard enough to come by at my age with my overtaxed uterus which has been fully inflated seven times. We all know how a balloon looks after you blow it up repeatedly... And those massage balls will conveniently replace my need to actually get out of my fancy chair and take a real walk, say barefoot - on a beach. I could probably hang a picture of seashells above my desk or a verdant tropical scene, sprinkle some sand between my toes, and really get my money's worth. I could sit all day in virtual peace with true comfort only one of 103 revolutions of "geometrical tilt tension based on natural human body linkages" away. Wow. Finally a real life use of geometry. I knew I should have paid closer attention in tenth grade.

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Anyway, for now I will enjoy the lower back support of my heated leather minivan seat instead. It may not have a lightweight and breathable Pellicle fabric back to it but it does have arm rests. And it cost me over 60 times as much as that designer chair anyway.

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K3

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P.S. Okay history buffs, pay attention. Here's a newsflash from here in the smallest state with the maybe soon-to-be-shortened longest name.

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How many of you know that the Ocean State was granted its charter by King Charles II in 1663 to become the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations? Or that the latter portion of this auspicious title bears reference to the large land holdings on the mainland across the water from this fair island on which I now sit and type? Or that this island upon which I write is the original "Rhode Island" referred to in said charter? It was named the Island of Rhodes upon discovery by the Italian explorer Verrazzano Island 500 years ago because it reminded him of its namesake island back home in the Mediterranean. Roger Williams saw fit to change it to the Island of Rodes, dropping the "h" in reference to the Greek word meaning "roses" which he must have found here in abundance as Rosa rugosa, beach rose, still thrives here and sweetens our salty air. This island is now commonly called Aquidneck Island to avoid the inevitable confusion folks from afar understandably have regarding whether or not our little state is an island.

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Well, it seems some people are offended by the reference to the word "plantations" in our State's title. They consider it a throwback to slavery. And while little Rhody was indeed a major player in the slave trade and efforts are currently underway to make reparations for the vast fortunes amassed on that historic front by families like the Browns and DeWolfs, the word in this instance is actually innocent of all such connotations. However, our venerable leaders have voted to put the State-formerly-known-as ballot measure before us citizens re said moniker for next year's election. They propose we agree to become quite simply, the State of Rhode Island. Period. And the originator of the legislation has stated, "It's got nothing to do with Barack Obama." As if. While I am all for simplification, I do think this is taking things a bit far. Our little State has been well served by our big name for hundreds of years. I see no need to change that.

Adios Amigos

Two chestnut mandibled toucans and one large green macaw named Fred are squawking outside our hotel room as I type my final farewell to this country we have called home for the past 10 months. It is with great sadness for us all that our time has drawn to a close for now.

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We spent our final weekend on the beautiful ranch of our friends, Finca de Imagines, and enjoyed the pastoral views of hundreds of healthy cows grazing and tens of horses cantering in the fresh green grasses brought by the welcome drops of the rainy season. We toured around and admired the primary and secondary tropical forestland, the canopy interrupted now and again by the spectacular green roundness of one individual who had managed to grow tall above the others and now commanded the best view to the ocean beyond. Midge and Brock are determined to protect these forests and are demonstrating to their neighbors that grasses for grazing the cows so loved by the Guanecastican ranchers actually grow best in the shade and the cows are happier out of the sun as well. This is an important lesson for a country of cowboys who have often been encouraged by their government to clear the rainforest for grazing.

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Back at the hacienda, the bromeliads and epiphytes burdening the ancient spreading arms of huge mangos in the yard attract a whole host of birds, leafcutter ants, and mariposas like the blue morpho to the rotting fruit beneath, each tree representing an entire ecosystem. I never tire of watching the lines of leaf cutters marching so precisely down the tree trunk and across the yard, each holding its own impossibly large sail of green leaf overhead on its long journey traversing a well-worn path back to the nest. Every so many of these leafy sails carried the tiny, minimus ants riding shotgun and protecting the burdened worker below from a wasp that likes to land on the leaf and lay its egg in the ant's head where the larvae will grow into its brain and kill its ant host before emerging to fly away. Yuck. These are amazing insects who compost the leaves in their enormous underground nests to grow a tiny fungus which feeds the colony. When a new queen emerges and leaves her birthplace to start a new colony she carries with her a tiny bit of this vital fungus, like the sourdough starter the Oregon trail brides carried across country to nourish their new lives in the unknown wilds of the west.

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I bathed in one of two rivers that traverses their land, cooling the roots of the trees and watering its wildlife, while we watched hopefully for a spider monkey to come swinging through the limbs above. We kept our eyes open to the possibility of seeing the scarlet macaws who fly through the area on occasion but they went unseen by us as well.

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Bella had her first horseriding experience on Gringo, a cinnamon colored mare, and Isaiah got back on the proverbial horse after his last bad experience riding with the older kids on Playa Conchal at Christmas time. Happily, his gentle steed restored his confidence. Senor Chino, as he is affectionately known, is retired now from his days of carrying all the ranch kids to school and patiently waiting outside the windows while they learned to read and write before bearing them all home again. Nowadays he is called into service from the pasture only on occasion to recall his days as the local school bus. I rode with Bella awhile and then we mercifully let the big kids go off on a longer, faster ride without us. It lifted my heart to see Christiana and Micah riding away with Kerry and Stewart with such a sense of confidence and freedom. Midge and I unsaddled the sweaty old timers and they perked up immediately, kicking up their heels and skipping off to join the herd with a friskiness they never dared show while we were onboard, lest we get the wrong idea. Clearly they had learned to work smarter, not harder, in their years of handling humans.

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It was a lovely place to end our time here on the "island." Micah will be staying on with Kerry and his family for another week or so and then they both will join us on our temperate island. The rest of us sat in the heat of the outdoor jacuzzi last night to ease the chill from the San Jose altitude and sipped on a cool drink while reminiscing about our year here with awe and sadness. It has been an amazing experience in so many different ways. The kids have all grown and matured and are returning back to the States healthy and taller with Spanish words in their brains and stellar school transcripts. We are thankful that nobody was injured or bit by a snake and have only the one scorpion tale from Micah to tell. Everyone made such great friends and we have met so many interesting people that we must figure out how to return very soon. I am very thankful for the time I had away from the usual distractions to pursue my lifelong dream of writing a book. I hope someday it will be published. Then perhaps I can revisit the subjects of this lovely land and write about the wildlife, the people, the beaches, and the rainforests of this country and the wonder of experiencing it all with my family for a year.

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So, for now, Hasta Luego, Amigos. Know that we will miss you all but carry you in our hearts and minds and conversations until we meet again.

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Mucho Gracias por todos. Amor Y Besos.

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K3

Life is a beach

Happiest when sand is between my toes, I love to walk the beach, any beach, and have spent years of my life on the sands of beaches from Rhode Island to Oregon; from Portugal to Costa Rica. I have never lived far from the salty water I crave. With Hannah home here to visit we decided to move to a house on Tamarindo beach to live out our last days in our year of Pura Vida. It has been a great move. We enjoyed the final days and evenings before the move on the white sandy beaches of Playa Conchal swimming in her turquoise waters so clear you could see the sand between your toes. I had one evening swim with my three oldest children and one with my two oldest daughters that will take a permanent spot in my memory bank.

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In between houses we took all the kids on a road trip down south to Uvita where we have owned property for several years now. It is a much greener and lush part of the Pacific coast where the jungle meets the sea and the Ticos still outnumber the Gringos in a positive kind of ratio that lends to a more tranquillo life. We had the run of a lovely new house overlooking the sea where we sat around the dinner table enraptured by the tales of our host who has experienced life to the fullest in his travels from Africa to the Amazon.

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"You haven't lived until you have heard a hyena laughing outside your ring of fire," he told our captive ears.

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So, we have not. Lived. Yet.

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We took the five kids on a trip out to Canos Island which lies some 15 miles off the coast and is a gem. We took a panga, which is a small boat with an outboard and a canopy used by most fishermen here, down the many miles of mangrove lined Sierpe River until we reached the sea. Crossing the bar proved to be a rail gripping ordeal as we exited the river at low tide which meant there was a line of towering waves marching towards us between where we were and our open sea destination beyond. Walter, our driver, who looked about 15 but was probably 30 in true Tico fashion, expertly assessed the breaking waves and kept us jockeying for position until we could get past the white water.

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"Here we learn to drive a boat before we can ride a bike," our guide Michael explained to ease my white knuckled grip on Bella's life jacket.

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Once safely on the open ocean our boat, which seemed so natural in the river, suddenly felt very inadequate. We beat our way across the advancing swells towards the island which lay far in the distance. When we were nearing the island we came upon a pod of spotted dolphins, some of which were sleeping. They woke up, leaping into the air and entertaining us all, except Isaiah, who was feeling a bit sick by then and laid down in the merciful lull while we watched them.

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Once we could see the line of palm trees backed by the thick jungle of the uninhabited island I started to scan the sky, certain that I would see a flock of pterodactyls circling overhead. Canos is part of a chain of offshore islands that includes Cocos and the Galapagos which lie off the Pacific coast, the former being where they filmed Jurassic Park. Indeed, as we approached the island the theme music played in our brains and it felt very familiar from having watched those films multiple times. We snorkeled before converging on the beach for lunch with a small fleet of fellow snorkel and dive boats. The undersea life was lovely. We saw schools of bonita, yellow tailed surgeons, and our goal for the day, a shark. The trip home was also through a pod of dolphins, but crossing the bar at high tide with the surf was easy. Late afternoon on the river brought out the monkeys, howlers and white-faced capucins, and we saw cool bats (photo) and the piece-de-resistance, three scarlet macaws. Fabulous.

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Upon our return we loaded up the Black Panther a couple of times and moved to Tamarindo beach where I am sadly typing out my last morning. Usually we are woken up by howlers in the green space next door and we have had our encounters with bold raccoons partying on our porch all night long. Andy tried to speak to them politely in his best raccoon, which must ultimately be like his best Spanish, as instead of leaving they simply moved their dancing onto the metal roof. One afternoon a band of howlers ran across said roof creating a surprisingly loud cacophany and jumped into the matapalo tree which abuts our porch. We sat in our rocking chairs and watched about 20 of them munching away for happy hour a few feet in front of us (photo). Yesterday I got in the shower and looked out the large window next to me into the watching eyes of a howler hanging from her tail happily eating the yellow flowers growing between us. Magic. I cleaned and she ate and we parted company feeling mutually satisfied.

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In a few minutes I am going to take my final early morning beach walk down to the estuary with my friends - the ladies of Tamarindo. Yesterday Susan and I passed a herd of about 20 cows strolling down the beach, a Tico moment etched in my brain but unfortunately not on my camera. The day before we sat in the estuary with Midge and a pink roseate spoonbill flew between us and an impossibly blue sky - fabulous. These ladies have lived here since Andy and I first arrived on this beach in 1987 and it is always enlightening to hear their stories of this town that has changed so much in the interim. Some things are eternal, fortunately - the line of palms on the beach, the flocks of birds and crocs in the estuary, the eternal sunshine and warmth we will miss. I eye my one pair of jeans which have sat in my closet all year along with my capris and short sleeved shirts and socks and fleece, all of which have way too much fabric to even consider putting on my body here. Even shorts are too confining in the heat. Reluctantly I have placed these strangers in the bottom of my bag, scrolling forward to the day which rapidly approaches when I will be frantically digging them out in the coolness of June in New England.

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Soon the sand between my toes will be replaced by little balls of cotton which rub off my socks. The last of my footprints on these sands will be washed away by the relentless incoming tide and new ones will appear in my wake. My friends here on the beach will greet the new faces of this place which sees so many footprints come and go. And I, in turn, will sink my feet into newly familiar grains of sand which have been tumbled and polished by the waters of a different shore.

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K3